


Requiem for a Consulting Detective

by eyesoflauramars (Andromede)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Humor, Drama, F/M, Friendship, Post Reichenbach, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:52:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andromede/pseuds/eyesoflauramars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper loves Sherlock Holmes. She believes in him and would do anything he asked her to do, even kill him. Not even the great Consulting Detective himself could have predicted just how much dying would change his life. Now he is starting to see some of those little things he always missed before, especially when it comes to Molly Hooper. A post TRF sherlolly fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Please kill me

Molly Hooper had fielded many odd request from Sherlock Holmes over the years—necrotic tissue samples, bacterial specimens, body parts. She had thought she’d grown accustomed to the brilliant man’s eccentric needs enough that she couldn’t be surprised by anything that he could ask of her.

That was, of course, until he had asked her to help him die.

“I understand your apprehension, Molly,” Sherlock’s deep voice rumbled, rocking Molly from her daze. “What I’m asking of you is a lot, I know. More than I’ve ever asked of you before.”

That was saying a lot.

“But you are the only one that can help me,” he went on, his voice sounding more vulnerable than she’d ever heard it, more human. “I need you, Molly.”

Oh god, he said it again. 

Molly’s heart twisted and in that moment she knew she’d do anything for the Consulting Detective. Even jump off the roof of the hospital herself.

“All right,” she said at last, her voice came out quiet and reedy from lack of use; she hadn’t been able to utter a word since Sherlock had told her his plan. 

Sherlock’s shrewd gaze narrowed on the Pathologist, who still looked rather rattled. He couldn’t take the chance that she was agreeing to help him under duress. It wouldn’t do for her to go changing her mind at the last moment once she’d come to her senses and realised it was too dangerous.

“All right?” Sherlock asked. “Are you certain, Molly? I need you to be sure. I need to know that you understand the ramifications that could come from your complicity. The risk involved is–”

“I know,” her still mousy voice interrupted. She cleared her throat. “I understand what the consequences could be to me, to my career, to everything if anyone ever finds out that I helped you, and I don’t care.” Molly looked up for the first time and brought her eyes to Sherlock’s slightly stunned ones. “I believe it’s worth it,” she told him with full conviction, then added, her voice quieter again. “I believe that you’re worth it.”

Sherlock’s lips parted but he didn’t say anything. Had Molly Hooper shocked Sherlock Holmes into silence?

She could have sworn she saw something, some kind of emotion flash through Sherlock’s usually hard, impenetrable eyes, but it was there and gone before she could decipher what it was exactly. She wondered if it was even really there at all, or if she had just imagined it.

In a blink, Sherlock had regained his usual stoic visage.

“Well, then, we should get started,” he said, rising gracefully to his feet. “Time is of the essence.”

Molly felt like she had been spun about in a circle blindfolded as Sherlock moved so quickly into action, leaving her to try and catch up with him. She slammed her eyes shut tight and took a deep breath, girding herself for what she had to do; she was going to kill Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 1: Death becomes him

Sherlock sat impatiently waiting for the IV drip Molly had insisted on to empty into his system. He’d had his eyes closed, leaning back as he retreated to the comfort of his mind palace, going over every bit of data he had stored away about Moriarty and his criminal network. It should have pleased Sherlock that Molly was being uncharacteristically quiet, but he oddly found himself bothered by her silence.  
  
By now she should have made several attempts to engage him in mindless chatter, the way she always did. But, she had barely said a word since he had come round from the paralytic agent that had put him in a seemingly lifeless state. She’d done no more than ask him if he was all right, and mumbled apologies for taking so long to locate a usable vein when putting in the IV—though it was hardly her fault she couldn’t find one, years of drug abuse were to blame.

Sherlock sighed, feeling unable to focus, and cracked his eyes open. He raised his head and stared hard at the Pathologist across the room. She looked frighteningly pale, leaning against a work-top and staring, gaze unfocused on the floor. Sherlock hoped she wasn’t going into shock—it would be terribly inconvenient.

“Are you quite all right, Molly?” he asked abruptly, shattering the stillness.

Molly jumped—it was as if she’d forgotten he were even there--and raised her head to look at Sherlock. “Sorry?” she squeaked, then realising what Sherlock asked, she shook herself. “Oh, I’m fine.” She plastered on what was meant to be a bright smile, but it wavered tellingly. “I’m just fine. Are you all right?” she asked quickly. “I mean, after all, you’re the one that just jumped off a building, not me.” She forced a laugh, it came out as one of those nervous titters she made almost exclusively in Sherlock’s company, and she winced at the shrill sound of it.

“Oh my god,” Molly whispered, her face going even paler than it already was. “You actually jumped off the roof. I can’t believe you jumped off the roof!”

“Well, of course I jumped off the roof,” Sherlock replied. “You knew I was going to, I told you my plan—were you not listening?”

“N-no, I mean yes, I know what you said, but I didn’t really... I don’t know, I guess I didn’t really comprehend it or something?”

“Didn’t comprehend it?” Sherlock asked, his voice dripping with condescension. “And just how many ways can one possibly interpret, ‘I’m going to jump off the roof’, Molly?”

Molly frowned at him, looking flustered. “I don’t know!” she cried out. “I just never think to question you. If any one else had made such a suggestion, I would have thought they were mad and tried to stop them. But because it was you, the idea sounded perfectly reasonable at the time. I didn’t think about until I saw them bring you in and...” Molly shook her head as her words drifted off. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, trying to will away tears and the image of Sherlock’s bloodied and broken looking body being brought into the hospital; she also tried to block out the memory of John’s cries echoing in the corridors.

“I’m fine, Molly,” Sherlock assured wanting to head off an emotional breakdown from the young woman. “Everything worked out according to plan. And everyone’s all right, me, John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. You helped save four lives today, Molly, why don’t you try and think about that instead of the awful alternatives of what might have happened.”

  
Molly sniffed and raised her head, again forcing a smile. “You’re right.” She nodded. “Of course you’re right, you’re Sherlock. The important thing is that you’re fine, and so is everyone else—well, except Jim,” she added, a small frown turning down the corners of her mouth..

Sherlock met her distraught expression with disbelief. “Don’t tell me you are actually upset over that man’s death! I know you’re tender-hearted, but honestly, Molly.”

“No, no, it’s not that I’m sorry he’s dead,” Molly replied. “Though, I’m not exactly rejoicing in his death either. I know that he got what was coming to him—he brought him on himself. But, it still ...bothers me.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed in curiosity. “It bothers you?”

Molly wrung her hands together, nervous. “Well, it’s just that, well, Jim—Moriarty,” she corrected herself; she really did need to stop thinking of him as Jim from IT. “He got to die a victim. People still think of him as Richard Brook, some poor sap actor that madman Sherlock Holmes hired to take credit for his heinous deeds. Which is exactly what he wanted. He died thinking he had succeeded and I just think it’s wrong that he won’t be here to have his nose rubbed in it once you’ve proved your innocence and brought his organisation to its knees. That’s all.” she finished quietly.

Sherlock smirked, looking almost impressed with Molly. “I must admit,” he said. “I’d really like to see Moriarty have his nose rubbed in it myself. But, I’ll just have to settle for destroying the legacy he left behind and reclaiming my life.” He clucked his tongue and affected a sigh. “Oh well.”

Molly met his eyes and couldn’t help the genuine smile that pulled her lips up, seeing the slightest spark come back to Sherlock’s eyes; it had been missing throughout the ordeal with Moriarty, replaced with that sadness that broke her heart. It was nice seeing it again, and Molly felt the anchor in her chest lighten a little thinking she had helped, in whatever small way, to help bring it back.

“I think I’m finished, Molly,” Sherlock pronounced, bursting the bubble that had just began to raise Molly’s spirits.

“Oh, Sherlock, don’t say that,” Molly replied immediately. “You’ll find a way to bring down Moriarty’s men, I know you will. I believe in you.”

“Yes, thank you, Molly, for the vote of confidence, but I was talking about the IV.” He raised his arm and nodded toward the empty fluid bag, a slight smirk at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh!” Molly exclaimed, then dipped her head sheepishly, blushing. “Sorry. I’ll take care of that.” She rummaged about in a supply drawer for a swab and plaster.

“Here we are,” she announced, presenting the objects to Sherlock with a bright smile. She crossed the room to him. Molly took Sherlock’s arm gently, a frown pulling between her brows as she tried to gingerly pick at the corners of the tape holding the needle in place in Sherlock’s arm.

“Just rip it off, Molly,” Sherlock demanded. “It’s the best way to go about these things.”

“Right,” Molly murmured. “I just don’t want to hurt you anymore. I still feel bad for how many times I had to stick you before—I hope you don’t bruise too easily.”

“I assure you, Molly, a few bruises are the least of my worries,” he told her, then, after batting her hand away, he unceremoniously tore out his IV.

“Sherlock!” Molly fretted. “Be careful.” She pulled his arm back and clucked her tongue, examining the area of the injection. Her lips pressed together seeing it was already turning a purplish hue. She pressed the cotton ball over the small hole. “Here hold this down,” she instructed Sherlock.

He rolled his eyes, thinking this unnecessary, but indulgently put his index finger to the top of the swab while Molly opened the plaster.

“There,” she said, securing the plaster over the swab, “all finished.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Molly’s bedside smile fell into a frown, her throat tightening with new tears. It was all finished now, she realised. Or at least her part was finished. Sherlock would be leaving soon, to god knows where, to do god knows what, for god knows how long. Who knew when she would ever see him again—if she would ever see him again.

Her heart clenched, her eyes burning with the unshed tears she didn’t know if she could contain for much longer. Molly quickly turned her back to Sherlock—she didn’t want to burden him with her emotions. She strode purposefully across the room, tossing the used plaster packet into the bin and reopening the supply cupboard.

She cleared her throat with a cough.

“Erm, I nicked you a some medicine from upstairs,” she told him, looking in the cupboard. “You’ll need them for your bruised ribs.”

“You didn’t have to do that, Molly,” he said, knowing he wasn’t likely take them anyway.

“Oh, well, I figure on top of everything else, it will be the least of my offences,” she said, forcing a laugh.

Of course, Sherlock saw right through the carefree facade Molly was trying so desperately to present; he could hear the underlying strain in her voice, the slight hoarseness of it, as well as see the tightness in her shoulders and general tension of her body. She was obviously upset. Which wasn’t unusual; Molly was often upset. But, unlike other times, Sherlock felt compelled to assuage her somehow. Perhaps he felt he owed her at least a bit of comfort after all she had done for him, or maybe Moriarty was right and Sherlock did have a heart after all—or maybe it was the effects of the head wound he sustained in the fall; at least, that was Sherlock’s preferred excuse.

Whatever the reason behind Sherlock’s sudden compulsion to comfort Molly was irrelevant as he felt himself unable to constrain the urge. He sighed, giving up trying to ignore it.

“Molly,” he ventured, his voice soft and entreating.

Molly didn’t answer him, keeping her back turned to him, her head down.

Taking in a deep breath through his nose, Sherlock hauled himself to his feet, wincing slightly at the pain that shot through his ribs, and crossed the room to Molly.

Molly sucked in a breath at the shift in the air Sherlock’s closeness caused. She clenched her fist and jaw, battling to keep the tears at bay.

Tentatively, Sherlock put out his hand and laid it on Molly’s shoulder.

Molly had to bite the inside of her cheek to hold back a sob, the warmth seeping into her from Sherlock’s touch almost too much to for her to bear.

“Molly,” Sherlock said again, still she wouldn’t face him. Sherlock sighed. “Please turn around, Molly,” he asked, his voiced tinged with his usual impatience.

Molly sniffed, taking a breath, she slowly turned to him, but kept her head down.

“Thank you, Molly.” The words didn’t have the foreign sound they had held earlier coming out of Sherlock’s mouth, and surprised by the earnestness in his voice, Molly raised her head. “What you did today was the one of the truest acts of loyalty and friendship I have ever encountered, and I shall not forget it, not ever. I promise.”

Molly couldn’t speak, and the tears that had been pressing against her eyes for so long, finally escaped making tracks down her cheeks, as a choked sound gurgled from her throat.

Sherlock coughed, feeling uncomfortable with the emotional display. He lifted the hand that was still on Molly’s shoulder and patted her. The action seemed to cause Molly’s sobs to increase, the opposite of what Sherlock had been hoping for.

Sherlock felt inadequate, something he was not accustomed to; he suddenly wished John were here, the doctor was much better at this comforting business. The thought of John made Sherlock’s chest tighten; a feeling that grew when he took his eyes from the spot above Molly’s head that he’d been focusing on and looked straight at her face. It was clear that she was trying to hold back from crying—a losing battle, it appeared---her eyes were red from the tears that continuously flowed down her face and past her chin and neck, making a well in the hollow of her throat. Her lips trembled violently, and Sherlock felt a strong need to make this stop. All he wanted to do was make it stop.

But, he didn’t know how.

His brow furrowed as his eyes roamed over her features, reeling for what to do. They came to a stop at her lips, and an idea sparked in Sherlock’s brilliant mind; he wanted to make them stop quivering, so he did the most logical thing he could think of, he leaned forward and firmly pressed his mouth to Molly’s.

 

_TBC..._


	3. A kiss goodbye?

If Molly Hooper were to make a list of the most passionate kisses she had ever experienced, the one she was sharing with Sherlock Holmes at this very moment would most definitely not rank top among them. Kissing Sherlock was certainly nothing like she had imagined it would be–and she had given a good amount of time fantasising about it.

His lips, like his attitude most of the time, seemed completely indifferent to the set they were attached to; his were still and clamped shut so tightly Molly imagined even the Jaws of Life couldn't part them. Though, to be fair, Molly wasn't exactly being the most lively participant herself. She was too shocked to do much of anything. She might have daydreamed about Sherlock kissing her many times, but she had never really thought he would _actually_ do it.

And now he was; he finally was and it was all wrong.

Maybe she could still fix it. Perhaps if she put her arms around his neck for something, and she could lightly run her tongue against his lips, try to nudge them apart. Maybe she could sift her fingers through his hair–her hands tingled at the very idea.

But before Molly had a chance to enact any of her plans, Sherlock's lips were gone from hers as swiftly as they had come.

Molly's eyes flashed opened and she blinked several times trying to adjust to the sudden loss. Her mouth opened as she gaped at the man standing before her, looking just as cool and calm as ever. And, as usual, she was completely confused.

"W-why did you do that?" she stammered, putting her fingertips to her lips.

"You were upset," he replied simply.

"Do you usually go round snogging everyone who is upset?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Absolutely not. But, after all the help you have been to me today, I figured I owed you something," he added, raising one shoulder in a shrug.

Molly felt her cheeks begin to flush with heat as she realised Sherlock's motives for kissing; of course it had been out of pity, could she ever really have thought there was any other reason. Molly's lips pressed tight together as her embarrassment become over shadowed by her rising ire—what gave Sherlock Holmes the right to pity her? It was an insult.

"Oh," she remarked, her tone clipped. "I see."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. "You're angry," he noted, puzzled by her reaction. "Why are you angry? If my observations about you over the years have been correct—which of course they have—you have a well established attraction to me. A fact I've been able to exploit numerous times to my own ends. One would think you would be please at my having kissed you."

Molly let out a laugh at that, raising Sherlock's brow. "Well it's good to see that jumping off the roof did no damage to your ego," she replied.

"As the ego is not a physical part of the body, it would have been impossible for the impact to have affect it in any way," Sherlock interjected.

Molly rolled her eyes at him. "You know what Sherlock, you're right."

"Of course I am," he said. "About what?"

"I am actually very glad that you kissed me," Molly elaborated. "Do you know why?"

"Please, do tell."

"Well it's just kind of reassuring in a way to know that there are still some things that _The Great Sherlock Holmes_ doesn't do better than everyone else," she told him.

Sherlock stiffened, feeling affronted—which was completely ludicrous. He shouldn't care one way or another if Molly Hooper thought he was a good kisser; his only objective in doing it had been to stop her crying. To which end he had been successful. Her enjoyment had not even entered his mind at the time—so why was he so rankled to learn that she was dissatisfied with his ability?

More importantly, why was Sherlock giving a second thought to such inconsequential matters, when he had much more pressing ones at hand?

Sherlock mentally shrugged off Molly's reaction and collected himself.

"Well, Molly Hooper," he began smoothly, "I am sorry that you found kissing me to be so appalling, but rest assured, I shan't ever do it again. And now, if you'll excuse me, I think it is time I be going. Thank you again, Dr. Hooper for your assistance today," he added in a formal manner. "Goodbye." He gave her a curt nod then swivelled on his heels and headed toward the door.

A sense of unadulterated panic flooded Molly's chest at the sight of Sherlock walking away. She knew that once he went out that door there was a chance he may never come back again. She couldn't let the possible last time she ever saw him to end like this. Molly lurched forward, her hand reaching out as if to grab Sherlock, and blurted, "No, wait!"

Sherlock paused mid-step and slowly turned back to Molly. "Yes, Dr. Hooper?"

Molly licked her lips, her heart banging so hard against her chest she was sure he must be able to hear it. "Erm, I just...I…" Thee little words drifted to the tip of Molly's tongue and she clamped her mouth shut knowing that she could not allow herself utter them aloud. She shook her head, swallowing the words down, and cleared them from her throat. "Be careful," she told him instead. "You have a small concussion and your blood pressure is still a bit low. If you exert yourself too much you might faint."

Sherlock felt some of the ice that surrounded him begin to thaw in the face of Molly's concern and he softened. "I will take care, Molly, I promise," he assured.

Molly's head bobbed. "Good," she replied quickly, feeling her throat begin to tighten with tears again, her chest clenching painfully.

Sherlock's jaw set. He could see Molly on the verge of tears again and didn't think he could stand to witness her breakdown a second time.

"I really must be leaving now, Molly." he told her, trying to be gentle.

"I know," she said, sucking in a shaky breath and blinked back the threatening tears.

Sherlock made to turn, but paused, looking back to Molly. "Goodbye, Molly Hooper," he said, softly.

Molly smiled at him. "Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes," she returned, using his full name like he often did hers. "And good luck."

"I don't believe in luck Molly," he replied. "One doesn't need it when they possess the proper skills."

Molly giggled, rolling her aching and bloodshot eyes. "Blimey, can't you ever just say thank you?"

Sherlock looked at her curiously. "Thank you?" he drawled in that awkward way he had done earlier, not really understanding why he was thanking her.

"You're welcome."

A brief beat of silence passed.

Sherlock sucked in some breath and cleared his throat. "Well..." he said, letting his words drift off as his eyes trailed to the door.

Molly pulled herself up to her full five feet and three inches. "Right, yes, you have to go."

"I really do."

"Right then, best not dilly-dally any longer," she said, putting up her cheerful facade again.

Sherlock smiled tightly, and inclined his head in her direction then, without another word, turned and walked out of the morgue.

Almost immediately after the door swung closed behind Sherlock, it felt like the ground began spinning beneath Molly's feet. Her vision blurred and she felt dizzy, her legs were suddenly too weak to sustain her. She grasped out blindly for support until she felt the cool metal edge of a body slab and latched on. Slowly, she lowered her body down onto the floor. She pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around them, resting her head on her knees, she finally allowed herself to cry unimpeded.

She let out loud, gut-wrenching sobs, not worrying about the noise as there wasn't likely anyone around to disturb–not many people came down to the morgue unless they absolutely had to. And if by chance anyone did come, it would hardly be questionable to find the Pathologist in the state she was in, given what had happened today; it was no secret around the hospital that Molly had been infatuated with Sherlock Holmes. It would be perfectly reasonable for her to be having a rough time over his death.

She was crying so hard, it was difficult to breathe. She tried taking in gulps of air between sobs, each one making her chest burn and sting; the pain in her heart was so intense Molly thought it might burst.

The prospect of a life without Sherlock was too much to bear.

When would she see him again?

What if she never saw him again?

Just as Molly's dire thoughts were threatening to send her into a full-blown fit of hysteria she was ripped away from them by the sound of the door swinging open and crashing loudly into the wall.

With a gasp, her head snapped up and her eyes went wide with the sight before her. She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out, so she just gaped up at him dumbly and waited for him to speak.

"It seems that the building is currently surrounded by reporters," Sherlock explained smoothly. "Every exit is being guarded by blood hungry tabloid fiends; therefore, I am unable to make my escape at the moment. I really should have anticipated this," he added in a murmur, almost to himself. His eyes wondered off distantly for a moment, thinking about something, before settling on Molly. His brow crinkled when he looked at her. "You're on the floor," he observed. "Why are you on the floor?"

Molly was still boggling from his sudden reappearance and found it hard to find her voice. "Um..." she was all she could manage at first, then after shaking herself, and clearing her throat, she said, "I, er, well, just felt exhausted all of the sudden. Must be the adrenaline wearing off or something," she reasoned. "I'm fine." As if to exhibit that she was indeed all right, Molly gathered herself to her feet, fighting hard to not sway on her legs, and smiled reassuringly at Sherlock.

"Yes," he remarked. "It's perfectly understandable for you to be drained after such a trying day. I promise it will be over soon. I'm sure that the media will recede within an hour or so."

Molly nodded. "Right. Good." She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and began to chew on it, suddenly feeling awkward. She wasn't sure what to say to Sherlock now, after all they had already shared their goodbyes. Now what?

"Erm, Sherlock," she ventured, not really knowing what she was going to say.

"Hm, yes Molly?" he replied absently, already retreating into his mind.

Silence stretched out while Molly tried to think of what to say.

"Uh...coffee?" she said eventually, the offer coming to her so naturally, setting her back on familiar ground with the Consulting Detective.

Sherlock seemed to contemplate for a moment, then nodded. "Yes. Coffee would be good. Black, two sugars, thank you, Molly."

The exchange brought back some semblance of normality between them allowing Molly to feel a little more relaxed.

"Coming right up!" she chirped, beaming a smile at him before she dashed out of the lab to fetch Sherlock his coffee.

_TBC…_


	4. Chapter 3: Phantom of the Mortuary

**Chapter 3: Phantom of the Mortuary**

Molly's shoulders sagged as she came up the street and saw the swarm of reporters still gathered outside of St. Bartholomew's hospital. It had been nearly a week now and the media hadn't shown any signs of going away. Their presence still keeping Sherlock hostage down in the bowels of the hospital. And everyday he was cooped up, he became a little be harder for Molly to tolerate; she figured if she were stuck with him all day everyday for too much longer then the hopeless torch she'd been carrying for the Consulting Detective just might be snuffed out completely.

Her respect for John Watson had certainly grown over the last few days; for anyone to be able to share a flat with Sherlock and not kill him was deserving of a medal.

Working with Sherlock was next to impossible; he was constantly standing over Molly's shoulder whenever she was performing an autopsy, pointing out things he thought she had missed or gotten wrong. And every time he voiced his opinion, Molly would have to start all over again, because, as she had reminded Sherlock repeatedly, all of the autopsies were recorded. It certainly wouldn't be a good thing should someone happen to listen to the tapes and hear the very distinct voice of the supposedly deadman. Consequently, it took Molly twice–or sometimes three—times as long to finish her work; the bodies at Barts were quite literally starting to pile up.

Molly wasn't the only person at Barts that Sherlock was driving mad; during one of Dr Hunter's shifts, he had went to get a cup a coffee and returned to find one of his cigarettes, smouldering and perched on the edge of a body slab–the rest of the pack had disappeared. There were also stories from various sources about things being moved about or going missing. People were beginning to think the hospital was haunted: _The Phantom of the Mortuary_  they were calling the mischievous spectre.

Molly told Sherlock about the nickname his exploits had earned him and he rolled his eyes and grumbled something about preferring  _The Virgin_. Molly had wanted to ask him what that was supposed to mean, but honestly, she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

But no matter how much trouble Sherlock was causing Molly at work, she couldn't help but feel bad for him. She knew it couldn't be easy for him being cooped up when he wanted to be out there putting an end to Moriarty's organisation. Reminding herself that this was harder on him than it was on her was all that kept her from throttling him at times.

Molly took a breath and hiked her bag up on her shoulder as she stepped up to the kerb, girding herself for the fight she knew she would have to make to get passed the crush of tabloid reporters standing sentry between her and the door. It was common knowledge somehow that Molly had been Sherlock's closest contacts at Barts, so every time she came or went from the hospital they pestered her with questions about the nature of her relationship with the disgraced detective or if she had any prior knowledge about the crimes he had falsely solved.

It made Molly sick to her stomach the way they had all turned on Sherlock so quickly. After all, they were the same people that had made Sherlock a household name in the first place; they were the ones that had turned him into  _The Reichenbach Hero._ Unfortunately, it wasn't really all that surprising that they were now helping to destroy that name. If there was one thing people relished more than building up their heroes, it was tearing them down.

Molly's stomach twisted and she glanced back behind her, wondering if it was too late to go home. But then she thought about the man all alone down in the morgue and knew she couldn't. She closed her eyes, took another breath and crossed the street.

**oOo**

Sherlock sat anxiously behind his favourite microscope in the lab as he waited for Molly to arrive. His fingers drummed in the rhythm of Mozart's _Requiem Hostias_ ; the calming beat of it not having its usual effect(god he missed his violin!) He clucked his tongue and let out a sigh as his eyes flicked up to the clock; it was now two minutes later than the last time he had checked, meaning Molly was now seven minutes late.

Sherlock's lips pressed in an annoyed line and he straightened up away from the microscope, crossing his arms over his chest sullenly.

Where was she?

It wasn't like Molly to be tardy. It was rather inconsiderate for her to keep him waiting like this–another trait Sherlock wouldn't generally attribute to Molly–she knew that her assistance was needed for his experiments. Especially now that he could no longer roam freely about the hospital to acquire whatever was necessary. Molly had chided him for doing that, telling him he was starting to scare people into believing there was a ghost in the hospital.

 _Idiots_.

Sherlock stood up and began to pace.

What could be keeping her?

 _That oncologist is probably trying to chat her up again,_  Sherlock thought with a displeased sneer. The Dr–whose name Sherlock had been told on more than one occasion, but immediately dismissed as unimportant data and erased it–had come down to the morgue a few days ago under the guise of asking Molly how she was holding up with everything that had happened. Sherlock had been in the midst of an experiment and had to leave it and hide in the supply cupboard while the other man had tried to ingratiate himself to Molly.

Sherlock had nearly strained his eyes from all the rolling they did while listening to the conversation. It irritated him that Molly, someone that, in his highly discriminatory opinion, was moderately intelligent, ate up the piffle that spewed from the other doctor's mouth the way she did.

True, Molly's susceptibility to flattery had served Sherlock well many times, but that was different. When he complimented Molly in was in order to gain access to restricted areas in the hospital or acquire something he couldn't get on his own; important reasons. Not merely in the vain hopes of ending up with naked sweaty flesh slapping together and an exchange of bodily fluids.

For the life of him, Sherlock couldn't fathom why men expended such an effort chatting women up. He recalled how painfully dull it had been watching John desperately try to have it off with practically every female that entered his vicinity. Sherlock thought that if his flatmate had conserved half of the brain power he wasted on women, he could have been a genius.

By the time Dr. What's his name had finally left and Sherlock was able to come out, his samples had succumbed to oxidation, ruining his experiment. Ever since Sherlock had harboured ill-feelings for the man and it gave him a twisted since of pleasure knowing that the lunch date Molly had to cancel to help him last week had been with the oncologist.

In his mind he had done Molly a favour; why would she want to spend her time with a boring idiot like that when she could be doing much more interesting things–like helping Sherlock with his experiments.

The familiar cadence of Molly's footsteps echoing in the corridor pulled Sherlock from him musings. He quickly placed himself back behind the microscope and lowered his head just before Molly came barrelling through the doors of the lab, pushing them open with more force than she usually did and letting out a groan of frustration.

"Ugh, the nerve of those people!" she exclaimed. "What part of 'no comment' do they find so difficult to understand?"

"My guess would be the 'No'," Sherlock quipped, not raising his head. His lips twitched in a smirk at hearing that it hadn't been the oncologist that had detained Molly after all.

Molly hummed in agreement. "They have no sense of decency those people—no, not people, unfeeling vultures, is what they are," she vented. "Why can't they just piss off already and leave me alone!"

Sherlock couldn't help but smile out right hearing the usually soft-spoken pathologist use such colourful language.

"Don't worry Molly," he said, sounding bored, "people have remarkably short attention spans. This will all be forgotten as soon as the next sensation comes along."

"Well it can't come along soon enough," Molly said as she crossed the room to hang up her coat. "I hope some celebrity gets drunk and makes an arse of themselves soon."

Sherlock made a noncommital noise in response.

As Molly hung up her coat she noticed Sherlock's already up there. She frowned at the sight of it. She hadn't seen it since the day he jumped off the roof. As Sherlock hadn't been able to leave the hospital he hadn't had need for it. Her frown deepened seeing the slightly darkened patch around the shoulder area; like a stain. She touched it. It was damp.

 _Why should his coat be damp?_  She wondered to herself as she rubbed her moistened fingertips together. She could reason why he might need his coat–it could get quite cold down in the morgue–but she couldn't explain how the shoulders of it could get wet indoors. But, it had been raining lightly earlier in the day. The conclusion was, as Sherlock would say, obvious.

She gasped and wheeled around to face Sherlock, her eyes wide and her tone accusatory when she shouted, "You went out!"

"Good for you, Molly, you're learning to observe," Sherlock replied, as if her were praising a pet for learning a new trick.

"B-but," Molly spluttered. "You can't. How could you? The reporters– "

"Even unfeeling vultures need to take a lunch break," he interrupted.

"Well you certainly would know a lot about , wouldn't you?" Molly muttered, hotly.

Sherlock finally deemed to raise his head and met Molly's stunned face with an arched brow and small smirk.

Molly gasped, her hand flying up to her mouth. She was horrified with herself for saying such a thing. "Oh god, Sherlock, I'm so sorry," she gushed. "I-I didn't mean that. I swear. I don't think that you're an unfeeling vulture. I just–"

"Stop it, Molly," Sherlock ordered impatiently. "The only time you're actually mildly interesting is when you talk back to me. Please, don't ruin the moment. I so seldom get the chance to be entertained these days." He flashed her a half-grin and a wink before turning back to the microscope.

Molly felt herself warm in the face of Sherlock's smile, a clear sign that her crush on him wasn't in that much danger of disappearing after all. Now she knew why her constant flattery of him had gotten her no where all this time; because, unlike other men, the way to Sherlock's heart wasn't compliments, it was insults.

 _If only I'd known sooner_ , Molly thought with mock wistfulness. She let out a sigh as she went to retrieve her lab coat.

"Well then," she ventured as she pulled on the white coat, pulling her ponytail out from the collar, "where was it that you needed to be so badly that you risked being caught alive to go to?"

Sherlock didn't answer her. His focus intent on whatever it was down the end of the lense of the microscope.

A little too intent.

A bad feeling twisted in the pit of Molly's stomach. "Sherlock?" she asked carefully. "Sherlock, where did you go?"

Sherlock didn't answer her, his gaze remaining intent staring down into nothing through the lense of the microscope and fiddling with the focus knob.

Sherlock let out an aggravated sigh. "What difference does it make where I went? And what does it have to do with you anyway?"

Molly's mouth opened and she blinked, taken aback. She cleared her throat, pulling herself together. Sherlock was just acting angry in the hopes of intimidating her so she'll drop the subject. He'd done it before and it usually worked. But, Molly found herself a lot harder to intimidate these days.

"Well," she replied, "if it doesn't make any difference where you went then why don't you just tell me and stop acting so–" Molly stopped talking as she realized this answer too was obvious. She knew what today was; she knew where he went. "Oh, Sherlock, you didn't!" she said.

Sherlock said nothing, telling Molly all she needed to know.

Molly crossed the room to come to stand right in front of Sherlock. "What could possess you to do such a thing?" Again she was met with silence. Getting annoyed at his childishness, Molly crossed her arms over her chest. "Well, I may not be the world's only genius Consulting Detective, but even I know that when one is trying to maintain a low profile showing up to your own funeral is a bad way to go about it!"

With that, she spun around, ponytail whipping behind her, and began to storm off.

 _TBC._..


	5. Excuses

Molly stopped short halfway to the door, her lips pressed into a thin line and her hands clenched into fist at her sides.

 _No_ , she thought. No way was she walking out of her without getting an explanation. She couldn't let Sherlock off the hook for doing something so reckless and jeopardising, not only what he had given up his life for, but what Molly had taken a big risk in helping him to do; to rid the world of every last trace of the criminal syndicate that monster Moriarty created. She didn't know why Sherlock would take a chance of ruining his plans, but she was going to find out.

_And he better have a bloody good reason._

Molly turned round and strode purposefully back to Sherlock. She placed her palms flat on the surface of the work-top and leaned down, trying to convey as authoritative an air as she could manage.

Sherlock looked up at her blandly, twitching his brow up in question.

"Why?" Molly demanded.

"Why what?"

Molly gaped at him. "Why did you go to the funeral?" she exclaimed.

"Oh, that," Sherlock said, sounding bored. "Your still on that, are you?"

Molly blinked at him. He was unbelievable. "Still on that? Of course I'm still on that. It just bloody happened!"

Sherlock clucked his tongue and sighed. "Honestly, I don't see why you are so upset."

"Because somebody could have seen you, Sherlock!" she shouted.

"Yes, they could have, but they didn't. Therefore, as I see it, your point is moot," he said as though thinking he had put an end to the conversation completely Sherlock canted his head back down to he microscope.

Molly, her blood boiling, balled her right hand up into a fist, lifted it up and banged it down onto the work-top, causing the Petri dishes to rattle.

Sherlock's head shot up in surprise and he blinked owlishly at the seething pathologist.

"The point is not bloody moot!" she bellowed. "Because the point isn't that no-one saw, it's that you took the chance of being seen in the first place. I want to understand why you thought it so important to go there and risk everything."

There was a slight, contemplative pause from Sherlock.

He sighed and nodded. "You are right, Molly," he said earnestly. "I do owe you an explanation as to why I went to the funeral, and I will tell you, but I want to know something from you first."

Molly's brow crinkled. "What's that?"

"I'll tell you why I was at the funeral, if you tell me why you  _weren't_  there."

Molly's lips parted in surprise. She hadn't expected to have things flipped about on her. She should have though, after all this was Sherlock she was dealing with. "I..." she flailed, her dominate mien faltering. She shook her head and cleared her throat. "I'm not sure what that has to do with anything. I don't think that my absence is any big deal."

"Oh, but I disagree," Sherlock replied. "It's no secret that you held a strong affection for me, it only stands to reason that you would want to be present at my funeral, to pay your respects, and you not being there might be seen as suspect to certain parties. So I'm not the only one being irresponsible here now, am I?" Sherlock sat back, crossing his arms over his chest and grinning smugly.

Molly's lips pinched, her eyes narrowing at Sherlock's arrogant expression. She let out a huff and pulled herself up straight. "That is completely different," she maintained. "I couldn't go. I just couldn't."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not good enough," he said. "No, you demand an explanation from me, it's only fair that I should want one from you as well. And as I doubt you would accept me saying 'I just had to go' I won't accept that you 'just couldn't'. Why couldn't you?"

Molly pulled her bottom lip in between her teeth and twisted her fingers together. "It...it would have been too much for me," she said, miserably, looking down at her hands. "I wouldn't have been able to handle it."

Sherlock looked at her pensively for a moment. "Yes...I suppose that will do," he said finally.

Molly looked up at him confused. "What do you mean it'll do? Do for what?"

"Should anyone question your absence, that reaction will suffice," he elaborated.

"Do you think I was putting on some kind of an act just then? I meant it, Sherlock, I couldn't have survived going to your funeral. It would have wrecked me."

Sherlock stared at her uncomprehending. " _Wrecked you_?" he repeated as though it were a foreign phrase. "How would it have wrecked you?"

Molly let out a laugh of disbelief. "To have been surrounded by all those people that believe your dead, people that cared about you and are mourning you? It would have been torture. Especially knowing the truth the way I do. Some of those people I happen to consider friends, like Greg and Mrs. Hudson...and John." She said the last name quietly. The idea of seeing John was the worst. The memory of how he had been just after Sherlock had jumped still kept her awake at night. Remembering how he had screamed and refused to believe the other doctors telling him that his friend was dead, even though John had taken Sherlock's pulse himself, he still couldn't accept it. Not until he had heard it from Molly.

Only when the words had come out of the trustworthy pathologist's mouth, did John allow them merit. He wouldn't believe she could lie to him. He fell apart after she told him Sherlock was in fact dead. He would have fell to the floor had Molly not reached out and grabbed hold of him. He in turn clutched back to her. His weight had eventually became too much, they both sunk to the ground. Molly held John for a few moments. She would have held him for as long as he needed, if not for urgency of having to get down to the morgue to intercept Sherlock's body. She had tried to gently pull away from him, but he wouldn't let go. Finally she had to have one of the doctors sedate him. She hated herself for it and before going down to the mortuary she had to stop in the loo and throw up.

Molly never told Sherlock the details of John's reaction. When he asked how he had been, she'd simply say 'how do you think?'.

Understanding struck Molly. "You went for him, didn't you," she said softly, it wasn't a question.

Sherlock tensed and looked away. "I needed to see for myself."

Molly may not have Sherlock's powers of deduction, but she knew what someone suppressing their emotions looked like. She could only imagine how much it must have hurt Sherlock to see John. Her fingers twitched with the urge to put her hand over his, though, figuring the gesture would not be appreciated, she clasped her hands together to occupy them.

A heavy silence passed between them.

"Oh, can't you just tell him, Sherlock?" Molly asked, it was more like a plea. "I mean I understood why you needed him to believe it at first, but now some time has come by, do you really think Moriarty's men are still keeping watch on him?"

"I can't take the chance," Sherlock tightly replied.

"But you still took the chance to go to the funeral to see him? Correct me if I'm wrong here, but if Moriarty's men were watching John wouldn't they have been there? And if they had been there, in all likelihood, wouldn't they have seen you?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, but his expression became annoyed. Logic was his main weapon, most of the time, as the majority so seldom enlisted it, it served him well. He didn't like someone else using it against him.

Molly sighed. "I'm not trying to start an argument again, Sherlock," she told him. "I just know how much you miss him. How much you love him and he loves you too, you know, just as much."

It was Sherlock's turn to sigh. "As John has averred on many occasions, we did not have  _that kind_  of relationship, despite many people's implications to the contrary."

"No, no, I know that. I know that you and John weren't...physically intimate," Molly replied, blushing despite her own delicate phrasing. "But that doesn't mean that you don't care a great deal for each other. The bonds of a true friendship can be just as strong, if not stronger, than a romantic relationship. And I've never seen a friendship like yours and John's. I think you're soul mates. You have no idea how lucky you are to have found each other. I don't think many people ever really find their true soul mates, but you two did. It's special."

Sherlock was far from convinced that he and John were 'soul mates'. He'd have to actually believe in such a thing first. But he was intrigued by the idea that his friendship with John surpassed that of the ordinary.

"Is it, really? Special, that is," he asked Molly. "I suppose, never having had a friend before John, I never thought about how it compared to other friendships."

Molly felt hurt by Sherlock's claim. "That's not true," she murmured. Sherlock gave her a questioning look. She raised her voice to normal and elaborated, "It's not true that you never had friend before John. I was your friend. I was always your friend, even if you weren't mine. And I always will be, no matter what."

Sherlock's lips parted, but he didn't have a ready response, so he closed them again. He glanced away, blinking a few times as he thought of what to say. "I know I took your friendship for granted, Molly. And I am sorry. But, like I told you before, you do–"

"Count, yes, I know," Molly interrupted. "I know that's what you said, but, well you've said lots of things before, nice things."

"I thought I only ever said horrible things," Sherlock interrupted.

Molly ducked her head down and bit her lip at the memory of what had to have been the worst Christmas party in history–for her at least. "Well, usually, yeah, you do," she admitted, sheepishly. "But you are capable of saying kind things...whenever you need something, that is," Molly added. "It's not just you that does that, most people do. They tell sweet little lies to get what they want. And, yes, I was aware of what you were doing all the time. I just didn't care. Even though I knew you I knew you didn't really mean what you said, it still felt good to hear them, especially from you."

Sherlock cleared his throat, awkward. He always felt strange when Molly showed her feelings for him, because, honestly, he didn't know quite how to react to them. He was so used to people thinking him an arrogant arse and hating him. He had found a way with John, because he knew what he had to offer the man. A chance to get excitement back into his life being unable to adjust to the mundane once returning from the war. But with Molly he couldn't understand what it was she wanted from him. He didn't know what he had to offer her.

"I never lied to you, Molly," Sherlock stated finally, carefully. "Every compliment I ever paid you was the truth. I have observed many things about your appearance over the years, some flattering, some not, I just only every voiced the complimentary ones when I needed something."

"Oh." Molly felt her face heating up. All the nice things Sherlock had ever said to her started spinning in her head. He had once told her that she looked nice in blue, that it suited her complexion. Now that she knew he had meant it, she was going to start wearing more of the colour.

A smile came to her face, he mood had improved exponentially from what it had been when she first arrived at the hospital. "Right, then, I suppose I'd better be getting to it. I'm already behind enough as it is. But first, I must have coffee. There's no way I can face the dead without having caffeine in me." She laughed lightly at herself as she started for her office, where she kept a personal coffee machine. It was much easier to make her own rather than slogging upstairs every time she–or Sherlock–needed a cup. And honestly, the stuff she made was much more palatable than what was offered in the canteen.

"Oh, um, I drank all that," Sherlock informed her.

Molly paused and gave Sherlock a curious look. "There was nearly a whole bag left," she said.

Sherlock simply shrugged.

Molly smiled and shook her head. "No matter. I keep extra in–"

"The supply cupboard," Sherlock finished. "Yes, I drank that too, I'm afraid."

Molly's mouth dropped open. How in the world could one human being consume that much coffee in one weekend?  _Oh, that's right, Sherlock isn't quite human is he? Though he does seem to be making progress._

"Well, that's all right," Molly said, recovering herself. "I suppose I can just pop upstairs for a cup." She changed her direction and headed for the exit.

"Black, two sugars, please," Sherlock requested,

Molly paused. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I don't think that's a good idea," she told him.

Sherlock's brows rose. "Pardon?"

"Well, just, what if someone sees me with two coffees, they might wonder who the other is for. Someone might get suspicious."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, not amused. "Molly..."

Molly smiled. "Just kidding." Molly was just at the door, her hand poised to open it, when a sudden thought struck her. She dropped her hand and stepped back. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock let out a weary sigh. "Yes? What is it now?"

Molly slowly approached the work-top. "Why did you come back?"

Sherlock's annoyed expression went blank in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you've been waiting for days for your chance to get out of here," Molly went on. "You had it today, you were free. Why would you come back? I understand now why you took the risk to go, but you could have just as easily been seen sneaking back in and there was no real reason for you to come back here. So, why did you?"

Sherlock blinked repeatedly: one of very few tells he had that belied the calm indifferent air he liked to present to the world. It was a good question and not one he had been expecting. Why did he come back?

"Er...well," he started, then cleared his throat to stall. "Well, I have no immediate plan in place as of yet," he told her, recovering smoothly. "I'm still working out the details of my plan, considering what should be my first move. And as this is the only place I have to hide for the time being, it was only logical that I return."

"Oh, I see," Molly replied, though the excuse did seem rather flimsy to her. "I thought maybe it was because you were afraid you'd miss me too much," she teased.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes, how would I ever live without listening to you sing inane pop songs out of key all day while doing your paper work?"

Molly's mouth dropped open in offence. She snapped it closed and pinched her lips together, lifting her head defiantly. "I do not sing out of key."

"Do to." She didn't actually, but Sherlock wasn't going to admit as much. He'd already shown too much softness for one day. If he wasn't careful he might lose his status as a sociopath.

Molly clucked her tongue. "Right, I'll just go fetch the coffee then, shall I? What was it, Milk, no sugar?"

Sherlock just glared at her.

Molly smiled and pushed through the doors.

Sherlock could hear her giggles echo down the hall.

_TBC..._


	6. Human frailty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long since the last update! This chapter was a tricky one to write. 
> 
> Angst and drama ahead!

As soon as Molly left the lab, Sherlock gave up his pretence of being interested in the specimen under the microscope and stood up, taking to pace about the room. He frowned as he thought about Molly's question: Why had he returned to the hospital? While it was true that he had yet to complete the fine details of his plan to bring down Moriarty's criminal syndicate, that was hardly reason enough for him to come back to Barts instead of moving on. As for him not knowing where else to go, well that was just rubbish. There were any number of places he could have found to hide. But none of those places had Molly. And, without Molly, he was all alone.

Just a short time ago this detail wouldn't have bothered him. In fact, he used to prefer to be on his own. Alone was good. Alone protected him. At least that was how he had felt before John Watson.

For the majority of his life, Sherlock had gone out of his way to avoid any human relationships. He didn't have friends, he had contacts, resources. That was all he needed. Getting a flatmate was only supposed to have been a sort of experiment, never would Sherlock have predicated making the kind of attachment with the doctor he had, despite himself, made. He had come to rely on John, to depend on him, to need him. With John, Sherlock had to admit that he was not as immune to feelings as he had always thought himself to be. It forced him to see just how much the small group of people he surrounded himself with did in fact mean to him.

People like Molly.

It had come as a shock to him just how much he did care for Molly. How much she really did count. He might never have admitted to himself how much had it not been for her humble declaration to the contrary. Sherlock had felt it physically when Molly had said those words: _'I don't count'._ It pained him to know that he made her feel that way. Even now it caused a twinge in his chest to remember it.

Sherlock shook himself. He did not have the time, nor the luxury to dwell on such frivolous matters. Mycroft was right—as loathe as Sherlock was to admit it—caring was not an advantage. Caring is what had led him to the current predicament that he was in now. It was this feeling, this _sentiment_ that had proven to be his Achilles heel. What gave Moriarty all the leverage he needed to make Sherlock jump from that roof.

He never should have let it affect the way he did. The way he was continuing to let it affect him now. He came back to St. Bart's because he didn't want to leave. He didn't want to be separated from the last person in the world that kept him feeling like he wasn't actually the ghost everyone believed him to be.

Perhaps he had succumbed that frailty of genius; the need for an audience to witness his greatness. Or maybe it was a more human flaw that weakened him.

Either way, he couldn't afford to be weak now. Not when there was a war to be one. He needed to leave. The sooner the better.

Sherlock was pulled out of his musings by the sound of footsteps coming down the corridor. They weren't Molly's; despite it being too soon for her to be back from the cafeteria, these footsteps were heavier than hers, most likely male, and there was a lagging to them, as if one leg was injured.

Sherlock's eyes went wide as it clicked his mind who the footsteps belonged to. He froze for a moment as the footsteps got closer, but quickly shook himself and whirled around heading for Molly's office.

He paused, feeling he was missing something—like he often did—and turned back. His hawkish eyes scanned the room, looking for the detail he had overlooked.

_Ah._

It was obvious; his jacket still hung from the peg on the wall next to Molly's. Sherlock back tracked and deftly plucked it up, then strode quickly, utilising the long length of his legs, to Molly's office and shut the door behind him. He didn't shut it completely however, leaving it open just a crack so that he could hear clearly what happened.

This might have been a mistake, he realised, because as soon as he heard that all too familiar voice call out Molly's name, the heart, that he had so many times denied possessing, twisted, almost violently, in his chest.

_Oh John_.

**oOo**

"All right, I'm back! I've got coffee; milk and three sugars. Just the way you—John." Molly was so shocked to see the other doctor that the coffee she was holding nearly fell from her hands. The playful smile she had been wearing on her face dissolved as she stared at John, perched on the stool Sherlock had been seated in when she left the lab.

Oh god, where was Sherlock?

Panicked, Molly's eyes began to flick around the lab.

"Everything all right, Molly?" John's voice startled her and her eyes snapped back to him.

She forced herself to calm down and be reasonable; of course John hadn't seen Sherlock. If he had he wouldn't likely just be sitting here now would he?

"Oh, fine. Yes," Molly replied. "And how are you?" Molly wanted to kick herself the moment the question left her mouth. _How do you think he is Molly? He's just lost his best friend in the world. Or at least he thinks he has..._ Molly's gaze drifted toward her office; the door was ajar. She had no doubt that the Consulting Detective was hid away in there, listening to every word.

"Not so fine," John said, his voice sounding hollow; not holding the genial note Molly was used to hearing when talking with him.

Molly focussed sympathetic eyes on the man; he looked so worn down. His eyes were bloodshot and the lines around them seemed to have deepened significantly in the small time since she saw him last.

"I'm so sorry, John," she offered weakly.

"Are you?"

His question took Molly by surprise and she blinked. "P-pardon? I don't understand. Of course I am. You have to know that."

John took a deep breath through his nose and stood up. "The only thing I know for certain Molly is that you weren't there today. Now if you are really as sorry as you say you are, why didn't you come to the funeral?"

Molly's lips parted, though she had no ready answer for him. It was the second time today she had been blind sided by that particular question. She couldn't use the same excuse she gave Sherlock; she couldn't tell John that going to the funeral would have been too difficult, because she knew it had to have been a million times harder for him. "I...I had to work," she said feebly, feeling ashamed of herself.

A bitter chuckle sounded from John. "Oh, right. And I just bet that Mike wouldn't give you the day off—hell, the hour—to attend the funeral of a man who supposedly meant so much to you." He shook his head. "That's a bollocks excuse and you know it."

Molly couldn't argue with him. He was exactly right; it was bollocks. But she didn't know what else to say.

Molly lowered her head down, unable to look John in the eye, and whispered, "I'm sorry. I truly am, John. I can't begin to know what you must be feeling right now—"

"Well, you should," John interrupted and Molly looked up at him with confusion. "I mean, you loved him longer than I did. You've been infatuated with the man for years and you couldn't be bloody bothered to come to his funeral. What kind of person—" John's words cut off as his voice cracked. He took a shaky breath and tried to compose himself.

Molly's heart broke for him. This is exactly why she had avoided going to the cemetery. She couldn't stand to see him in so much pain. Especially knowing that all she had to do was tell him the truth and she could end it. The image of herself storming into her office and dragging Sherlock out by his ear, demanding he apologise to poor John for all the suffering he put him through, flitted through her mind.

It would feel so good, she thought. Just being rid of all this, having everything out in the open. Then she would be free.

But, she knew of course she wouldn't do that. She couldn't. She had made a promise to Sherlock, and she would keep it. No matter how much it killed her.

"Oh, John," she said taking a step toward the man.

John held out his hand to stop her. "No. Don't. Just don't." He sniffed, pulling back the tears and cleared his throat. "Just answer me this, Molly, do you believe it?"

Molly blinked and shook her head. "I don't know what you mean? Believe what?"

"All of it," John said. "All the rubbish they're saying about him in the papers. That he was a fraud. A criminal. A monster. Do you believe it? Is that why you weren't there today? Because you've bought into all that shite like everyone else?"

Understanding hit Molly like a ton of bricks. It was perfectly clear now why John seemed so angry with her. "Oh. Is that what you think? That I've lost faith in Sherlock?"

"Well, what else am I supposed to think? You spend years acting as if the man hung the bloody moon and then you don't come to his funeral. With all of these bloody lies being flung about... Even Lestrade has doubts about him. He doesn't say it out loud, but I can tell, you know. So, what about you, Molly? Have you bought into it all as well?"

Molly was quiet for a moment, considering her words carefully. She licked her lips and cleared her throat. "Sherlock Holmes was a rude and arrogant man, whose constant need to prove his cleverness caused pain for many people. He was often inconsiderate, saying harmful things without a thought just to show off. I have no doubt about his capacity for cruelty." Molly paused, sparing a look at John; the other doctor's mouth hung open, in his eye a mix of outrage and sorrow. "But, I do not believe that Sherlock was a cruel person," Molly added and confusion flashed in John's expression. "I don't think that the things he did and said were meant with true malice. He was just a git who didn't know any better."

The ghost of something like a smirk quickly passed over John's lips. "Yeah. He certainly was that," he agreed with something between a sob and a chuckle.

"Sherlock Holmes was a great a man," Molly said.

"Yeah, and a good one too," John murmured wistfully.

"I could never doubt him. I believe in Sherlock Holmes and I always will. I'm sorry I wasn't at his funeral. I should have been."

John shook his head, swallowing down a visible lump in his throat. "No. I shouldn't have spoken to you the way I did. I was wrong. I know what a good person you are Molly, and I know how much you cared for Sherlock. I never should have doubted you're loyalty. It's just been so hard hearing the way people are talking about him now."

"I understand," Molly said. "I feel the same way. It makes me furious every time I see one of those headlines defaming him like that. All the while portraying Moriarty, sorry, "Richard Brook", as some sort of tragic victim. It makes me sick."

"Thanks, Molly."

Molly blinked in surprise. "For what? I didn't do anything."

"Yes you did," John said. "You have no idea how good it is to know that I'm not alone. That there's someone else on Sherlock's side."

"I'll always be on Sherlock's side." There was a touch of resignation in Molly's voice that John seemed to miss—but the man behind Molly's office door didn't.

John blew out a slow breath. "Well...I should go, let you get back to your work."

Molly nodded with a small smile. "Yeah. Okay. Er, John. You know, if there's anything that you need, or if you just want to talk, I'm here for you."

John gave her a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Thanks, Molly." He walked over to her and gave her a tentative hug. "Bye."

"Bye, John." Molly watched John walk away; he was limping slightly on his right leg—the way he had been when Molly first met him. It seemed Sherlock's death was taking more than just an emotional toll on the doctor.

Molly felt drained from her encounter with John. She cast a look at the door to her office and her stomach clenched. She wasn't too keen on seeing Sherlock at the moment. Though, she had offered her aid to him willingly, Molly was still a bit angry with Sherlock for making her keep his secret from John. No matter how the Consulting Detective tried to rationalise it, Molly didn't understand why he couldn't tell John the truth.

Molly's cheeks were wet with tears that had fallen sometime during her talk with John, and she decided a trip to the loo to splash her face with some water was in order; it would allow her a moment to collect herself before having to see Sherlock.

She returned to the morgue feeling mildly better. She paused outside the door to take a deep breath. Even though she was sure that Sherlock would see through it anyway, Molly affixed a bright smile on her face before pushing open the door.

She needn't have bothered.

The morgue was empty.

 

  _TBC..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! All Feedback is always welcome and appreciated!


	7. chapter 6: The empty morgue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello,*clears throat and waves sheepishly from the cave I've been dwelling in for the better part of a year* so I know it has been an inexcusable amount of time since I have updated—most of you have probably forgotten all about this fic, and if not you've likely given up on it and I don't blame you. The only excuse I have is that RL got, well, real. Anyway, in case there is anyone out there that is still interested, here is an update! I hope you like it.

**Chapter 6: The empty morgue**

 

 

The silence was driving Molly mad. She wasn’t used it, this depth of silence. It was heavy and thick, and Molly felt it almost as if it was a physical entity suffocating her. She couldn’t stand it. In any other morgue in the world, quiet would not seem so out of the ordinary. But, the morgue at St. Bartholomew’s hospital wasn’t like any other. Sherlock Holmes’ larger than life presence had been a veritable mainstay in the place for as long as Molly Hooper had been employed at the hospital, thus making it much more lively than any mortuary ought to be. It felt wrong that he should be away from the place for so long. Molly’s heart leapt every time the doors swung open in anticipation of looking up and seeing the Consulting Detective saunter in and make some sort of request–or demand. And it hurt just as much every time when it wasn’t him.

 

It had been nearly three months now since Sherlock had vanished without a trace. Nearly three months without a word from him. Not that Molly had really expected to hear anything from him once he had gone, but she just wished that he would make contact with her somehow. She just wanted some kind of sign that he was all right.

 

All right. It was a funny thought. The man was after all only trying to single handedly dismantle the largest and most nefarious criminal syndicate the world had ever known, but he was probably as safe as could be doing so.

 

_Stop it, Molly,_ she told herself, trying to cut off the onslaught of terrible thoughts that always invaded her mind whenever she thought about Sherlock–which was most of the time. If she had thought his presence in the morgue was distracting, it was nothing compared to him being out there, god knew where. She was more preoccupied with him now than she had been when he was hovering over her shoulder while she was working.

 

“Ugh!” Molly groaned, frustrated. She tossed her pen on her desk and stood up. _I need a break._ She gathered up her coat and handbag, thinking a quick change of scenery might help. She went for a coffee at a café down the street and took a stroll. When she returned to Barts she stuck her earbuds in her ears and blasted her iPod as loud as it would go in an attempt to drown out the silence that Sherlock left behind.

 

 

**xxx**

 

 

 

Molly came awake with a start, her sudden movements disrupting the slumbering cat on her lap. Toby leapt off her lap with a disgruntled meow.

 

“Oh, sorry, Toby,” she told the cat. He didn’t seem to be in a forgiving mood. He levelled his narrow eyes at her then turned away, leaping onto a chair. Molly yawned, shaking her head. She was still a bit disoriented from sleep and her neck ached from the awkward position she had been in. She rolled her shoulders and rubbed her neck. How long had she been sleeping? She looked at her wristwatch and her eyebrows shot up in surprise; it was after one in the morning. It had only been a bit after eight when she got in. She had fed Toby and had a shower, then settled down on the sofa with a hot cup of tea–which now layon the table, cold and untouched. Molly rubbed her hand over her face. It was no wonder really why she had fallen asleep, she’d been having a hard time getting much rest since Sherlock left. Every time she closed her eyes she imagined him lying dead somewhere–for real this time.

 

So, she knew why she had fallen asleep, but what had woken her up?

 

A knock sounded on the door and gave her the answer she was looking for, but begged another; who on Earth would be calling at this hour? Only one possibility came to Molly’s mind. Her eyes widened and she sprang to her feet, nearly flying across to the door. Her heart raced and her hands shook as she tried to disengage the doorlock. _Oh, Sherlock._ She felt giddy at the idea that he could be on the other side of her door. She was practically floating. She fell hard when she finally managed to unlock the door and get it open. It wasn’t the Consulting Detective after all.

 

“John?” Molly said, surprised and trying to school her disappointment. She shook herself, curiosity and concern overshadowing whatever else she was feeling. “Is everything all right?”

 

The other doctor looked a bit out of sorts. “Er, yeah, everything’s fine,” he murmured, scratching the back of his head.

 

Molly’s brow furrowed and she stepped back from the threshold. “Erm, do you want to come inside?”

 

“Uh, sure, thanks.” John came in and Molly closed the door behind him.

 

“So,” Molly ventured, putting on a smile. “What brings you by?” _And at this hour_ , she added silently.

 

“I, uh...” John stammered, then chuckled softly. “I don’t really know to be quite honest. I just couldn’t sleep so I went out for a walk. I just wandered 'round for a bit with no real destination and just sort of found myself in your area so I thought...” John shook his head. “Jesus, I am so sorry, Molly, I had no idea what time it was,” he said when his gaze landed on the clock on the wall. “God, I am such a... I really didn’t mean to bother you. I should just go.” He made to leave but Molly stopped him.

 

“No, John, it’s all right, really,” she insisted. “I wasn’t in bed, or anything.” Technically, it wasn’t a lie. “You’re not bothering me. In fact, I was just thinking about putting the kettle on. Would you like some tea? Or coffee?”

 

John’s forehead wrinkled. “Are you sure? I really don’t want to put you out.”

 

Molly smiled. “You’re not. I would actually really enjoy the company.”

 

“If your sure...”

 

“I absolutely am.”

 

John smiled. “Well then, all right. I would love a cup of tea, Molly. Cheers.”

 

Molly beamed.

 

 

 

“You don’t take sugar, do you?”

 

“Er, no, I don’t,” John said. He was sat at Molly’s table while she made the tea.

 

“I didn’t think so.” Molly opened the cupboard to get some cups. In the back of the cupboard was a bottle of whiskey, left over from when her father used to come to visit before he died. He loved a good whiskey. Molly didn't really care for hard liquors herself, but had never really had the heart to chuck it out. She stood on her tiptoes and carefully reached for the bottle. She bit her bottom lip and flicked a glance over to John. “Er, how about a bit of whiskey?” she asked, sheepishly.

 

John looked over at her with raised eyebrows, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Why not,” he said. “Only if you’ll join, that is.”

 

“You know I think I will,” Molly said, twisting the cap off the bottle. She poured the tea and added a generous splash to each cup. She brought them over to the table and sat opposite John. She lifted her cup and John clinked it with his. Molly blew on the steaming liquid before taking a tentative sip. The tea had diluted the alcohol enough to take a good deal of the sting out. The liquid slid smoothly down her throat and a pleasant warming sensation spread out across her chest, settling down in her belly. And as she drank she imagined her worries melting away...for a little while at least.

 

 

 

**xxx**

 

 

Sherlock Holmes had never been a fan of having free time. Every second that he was not working on a problem he could feel his brain rotting from lack of use. His magnificent mind was in constant need of stimulation. Unfortunately, at the moment being several miles out to sea he was not having much luck finding any. Sherlock detested sea travel for precisely this reason; the tedium–which was the main reason he gave up on his dream of becoming a pirate. It was too bad he didn’t really have any other choice. It was not easy for a deadman to travel these days. Security at airports and train stations were extremely tight. He couldn’t risk being caught by the always watchful eye of Big Brother. CCTV cameras were virtually inescapable. Seeing it as his best option, Sherlock had arranged for his passage on a fishing vessel. It would get him where he needed to go well enough. And being as the other men on the boat spent the bulk of their time out at sea, most of them had never even heard of Sherlock Holmes. Of course Sherlock was still using a false identity, and hiding his somewhat distinguishable face behind a fake beard to be safe.

 

Still, as convenient as his current means of travel may be that did not make up for the fact that it was extremely dull. Though, Sherlock had never been particularly fascinated with marine life, he tried to bide his time conducting the odd experiment here and there on the various aquatic life forms he was able to get his hands on. He couldn’t do too much however not wanting to attract attention to himself. So most of the time all he could do to keep from pitching himself overboard was to retreat to the sanctuary of his Mind Palace. Or at least it had used to be a sanctuary, before it had been invaded by one Molly Hooper. Sherlock wasn’t sure how it had happened, how Molly had come to take up so much space in his Mind Palace. The facts about the pathologist used to be relegated to a thin folder inside a drawer in a small office. The same drawer he kept mostly inconsequential details about his acquaintances that he thought may be useful at some point. But now it seemed as if no matter where he turned there she was, smiling that smile of hers. She was making it rather difficult for him to go over the data he had about Moriarty’s network. Somehow he was going to have to find a way to, if not get rid of her entirely, lock Molly away so he could focus on the task at hand. Otherwise he feared he would never be able to clear his name and reclaim his life.

 

 

 

_TBC..._


	8. Hello Kitty

xxx

 _Oh, well isn't his just lovely?_ Molly thought acerbically as she stepped outside of the hospital into the rainy evening. Of course she had not brought an umbrella with her today; the weather report that morning had said the chance of precipitation was slim. With a sigh that puffed out her cheeks, Molly loosened her jacket off her shoulders and lifted it up over her head. It didn't provide much protection from the rain, especially when she tried to hold it up with one hand, the other busy trying to desperately fetch a taxi.

"Here, you can share mine," a voice said, and the rain suddenly ceased pouring down on Molly.

She turned with a grateful smile to the woman holding the umbrella next to her. "Thank you."

The woman smirked. "Not at all, Dr Hooper."

Molly's smile faltered. "Sorry, do I know you?" She squinted, staring at the woman's face, trying to place her; she seemed vaguely familiar.

"No, but I know quite a bit about you, Dr Hooper," she said. "And I am just dying to know more, especially about your relationship with Sherlock Holmes."

Molly's face immediately turned to stone, her mouth setting in a hard line. Her ire rose. "You're a reporter." It was an accusation, not a question.

The woman held out the hand not holding the umbrella to Molly. "Kitty," she said. "Riley."

Molly looked down at the woman's extended hand, then back up to her face. "No comment," she spat and spun on her heals, storming away, no longer caring about the water pelting her. Molly would have been fine to leave it at that, even if it meant walking all the way home in the rain, but the reporter was relentless; like a shark that had scented blood.

"So, is it true you were in love him?" Kitty pressed, following Molly. Molly ignored her. "Is that why you helped him?"

Molly froze at that. She turned slowly around to face Kitty Riley. "What?" Molly asked, keeping the anxiety out of her voice with an effort. She cleared her throat. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, come now, Dr Hooper," Kitty goaded, sauntering confidently over to Molly until they were both once again sheltered under her umbrella. "Sherlock Holmes couldn't have pulled all of that off by himself. He had to have some help. So, what did you do? Smudge a few reports now and then?"

Molly felt the ball of tension at the pit of her stomach ease somewhat, but was careful to keep the relief from showing on her face. For a moment she had been terrified that this Riley woman had somehow uncovered the truth about Sherlock's "death" and Molly's part in it. Molly let out a sigh and squared her shoulders. "Like I said, no comment." She whirled around again, and again Kitty Riley followed.

"Well if you weren't a participant in Sherlock Holmes' deceptions, then you were taken in just like everyone else," Kitty pursued. "You must feel such a fool knowing that he was really nothing but a fraud."

Molly wasn't a fool, she knew what Kitty Riley was up to; she was trying to bait her. The best thing for Molly to do would be to keep walking. Yes, that would have been the best thing for her to do, but...

Molly whipped around, getting in Kitty Riley's face. "Sherlock Holmes was not the fraud. Jim Moriarty was behind all of this."

"You mean Richard Brook," Kitty corrected.

Molly let out a sarcastic laugh. "Richard Brook is nothing more than another one the false identities Moriarty made up for himself to hide behind."

"Everything that Richard Brook said was checked out and verified," Kitty Riley pointed out.

"Yes, well then the reporter he told the story to did a crap job of it," Molly countered. Kitty Riley tensed, looking affronted. And then it dawned on Molly. She knew why this woman seemed familiar. She had seen her face next to the original article defaming Sherlock.. "My god, it's you! You're the one who wrote all of those things."

Kitty's chin rose, proudly. "That's right. I am the one who exposed all of Sherlock Holmes' lies."

"Well then you are the one who was taken in, Ms Riley," Molly said. "By Jim Moriarty. He was the real criminal. The truth will come out one day, and then you will find out first hand was it is like to have your reputation ruined." Once again, Molly spun around.

"If that's true, then why did Sherlock Holmes commit suicide? If he was truly the great detective he made himself out to be then surely he would have found someway to clear his name. So why didn't he?" Molly froze. She didn't look at Kitty, but she didn't walk away either. "I'll tell you why, because he was a fraud, but more than that he was a coward, and he didn't want to go on living with everyone knowing the truth about him."

Molly had heard Sherlock called many names over the years, nearly all of them unflattering, and most of them not completely unwarranted, but if there was one thing that Sherlock Holmes absolutely was not it was a coward. How dare this woman say such a thing? Molly's blood boiled, she could hear it rushing in her ears. Her fingers curled into tight fist at her sides, her fingernails digging into her palms; but Molly felt no pain, only rage. She was so angry she couldn't even see straight. It was like Molly's body and mind had been invaded by some powerful force that took control of her. The next thing Molly knew was that her hand was throbbing and Kitty Riley was sprawled on the pavement clutching her nose.

**xxx**

John Watson blew out a breath as he stood before his open refrigerator contemplating what might be edible. He took out one of the many old Chinese takeaway cartons crowding the fridge and opened it up to inspect.

"Oh, dear god," he groaned, the stench coming from the leftovers making his eyes water. He chucked the carton into the bin quickly. He sighed and, not wanting to chance another unpleasant olfactory experience, began binning the rest of the old food as well. His mobile rang just as he was about to grab it to phone the Chinese–whose delivery boy he was practically on a first name basis with at this point–for something fresh. John looked at the digital readout on his phone and smiled. It had been a couple of weeks since the night he showed up at Molly's flat, and the pathologist had crossed his mind on more than one occasion since. He had thought about giving her a ring a time or two himself. But he was quite busy, having taken to doing extra work at the surgery as a way to distract himself. That night with Molly had been the first time in a long time where he didn't feel completely alone and hopeless. He slid his thumb across the screen to answer.

"Hello, there," he said as a way of greeting. "How nice to hear from you. You know I've actually been meeting to give you a ring."

"Oh, really?" Molly said. "What for?"

"Dunno, just to say what a nice time I had the other night. And to maybe see if you'd like to grab a coffee sometime. Whiskey optional."

Molly tittered lightly, but it sounded off. "Erm, that sounds nice. I would like that."

John frowned hearing the strain in her voice. "Is everything okay?"

"What? Oh, yes. I'm fine," she said with a light tone that was obviously fake, he didn't have to be an expert at deduction to tell that.

"Molly," John drawled. "What is it? What's going on?"

"Er, well, there is actually something..." Molly began. "I need a rather big favour. I really hate to bother you with this, but I couldn't think of who else to call."

"Don't worry about bothering me," John insisted. "Just tell me what's going on and how I can help."

He heard Molly clear her throat. "Well, the thing is, I sort of need someone to come and get me."

John felt himself smile and shook his head. "Is that all?" he said. "You need a ride? That hardly constitutes as a big favour." The way she had been talking it was as if she were asking him for a kidney.

"Well, there's a bit more," Molly hedged. "I also need to borrow a bit of money. A-about... two hundred pounds."

John's eyebrows shot up at that and he let out a low whistle. "Blimey," he swore.

"I'll pay you back straight away," Molly quickly assured.

"I know you would, Molly," John said. "But what do you need cash like that for so desperately?"

There was a pause on the other end of the phone.

"Molly?"

"Er, I've sort of been, a tiny bit... arrested," she stammered, her voice squeaking on the last word.

John boggled. He closed his eyes and shook his head, certain he must have heard her wrong. Molly Hooper, arrested? Surely not.

"Sorry," he said. "You what?"

**xxx**

Molly stood their mortified as John Watson filled in the forms after bailing her. She couldn't believe this was happening. She had been arrested. For assaulting someone. Molly wasn't a violent person; she had once given a date of hers a slap for getting a bit too friendly despite her protest, but never had she hit someone hard enough to knock them down, or cause injury. Her own hand was still smarting and had begun to bruise; she could only imagine how Kitty Riley's face felt.

"Well, that's finished," John announced. "Shall we?"

Giving John a small smile, Molly nodded and followed him outside.

"I really am sorry about this, John," Molly said as soon as they were outside. "I hated to have to bother you, but like I said, I couldn't think of who else to call. And I promise you I am going to reimburse you every cent of the bail money. In fact, I'll do it right now. I think there's a cashpoint near here somewhere." Molly took a step, ready to search for the cash machine, but stopped short when she heard John burst out laughing behind her. Molly turned to him, her face aghast at his reaction.

The doctor took one look at Molly's face and doubled over with laughter.

"John!" Molly cried, not seeing how this situation was the least bit amusing.

John straightened himself up, wiping the corners of his eyes. Then he surprised Molly again by pulling her into a hug. "Oh god, thank you, Molly," he said, breathlessly. "I haven't had a good laugh like that in ages."

"I can't believe it," John remarked, not for the first time as he and Molly sat having coffee in a café across from the police station. "You really punched Kitty Riley?" He shook his head, smiling.

"Would you stop looking so pleased about it," Molly chided, flushing. "It was hardly my finest hour."

"Well that is where I will have to disagree with you Molly," John said. "God what I wouldn't have given to see that woman get what was coming to her. It was well worth the bail money, I'll tell you that."

"The bail money that I am still going to repay you," Molly insisted.

John waved her off. "Don't worry about it."

"No John, really. It's not like you loaned me a little cash for a coffee or something. It was nearly two-hundred pounds!"

"All right, all right," John said. "If you are really that set on paying me back, why don't you do it by buying me dinner."

Molly looked at him sideways. "It would have to be somewhere pretty posh for that kind of money."

"Well then," John posed. "How about... four dinners."

Molly's face wrinkled. "What?"

"Yeah, that should put it about even, and I would prefer it to the cash to be honest. I am getting so sick of takeaway, and I don't really like going anywhere nice on my own. So... What do you say?"

Molly looked at him sideways. "Are you serious? You really want me to buy you dinner instead of just giving you your money back?"

"Well, yeah. Like I said, it'd be nice to have some company for a change."

Molly smiled. "I don't recall John Watson ever having any trouble finding companionship," she playfully remarked.

John smiled a little sadly and looked down at his coffee. "Well things are a bit different now."

Molly's chest hurt and she wanted to kick herself for bringing down John's mood. "Well I would be honoured to take you to dinner," she said, trying to right things. "How about Friday night?"

John smiled up at her, brighter than before. "Sounds great."

_TBC..._

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just have to say I have no idea how much it actually cost to bail someone. I took a bit of creative licence. Anyway, I would really appreciate any thoughts on this chapter, good or bad. Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> I would be really grateful if you would leave me feedback and let me know what you thought of this.
> 
> Thank you.


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